Dillon began to shuffle to the door. “Don’t you worry about me,” he said.
Abe looked him over, sighed, and put his glass on the wood. He walked over to Dillon, looking up at him. “If you could use a meal,” he said, “go over to the store across the way. My wife’ll fix you something.”
Dillon stood looking at Abe, his cold eyes searching the little Jew’s face. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess I’ll do that.”
The three at the table, and George, watched him shuffle out of the saloon. Freedman said, “That’s a bad guy all right. There’s somethin’ about that guy.”
George mopped his face with the swab. He was mighty glad to see Dillon go. “You gotta be careful with those bums, Mr. Goldberg,” he said. “You don’t know how tough hoboes are.”
Abe drained his glass, then shook his head. “That guy’s all right. He’s hungry,” was all he said. He crossed the street and went into the store.
Abe Goldberg was proud of that store. It was all right. It was a good store. You could get most things from Goldberg’s Stores. Maybe you did have to pay a little more, but it was convenient. All under one root. It saved a walk in the heat, so you expected to pay a little more. Anyway, Abe made a good thing out of it. He didn’t toss his money about, nor did he yell-about it. He just socked it away in the bank, and said nothing. Most people liked Abe. He was a little sharp, but then you expected that too, so you haggled with him. Sometimes, if you haggled long enough, you got what you wanted cheaper. Abe’s joint was the only one in town that you could haggle in. And sometimes people like to haggle.
Abe walked into his shady cool store, sniffed at the various smells, and smiled to himself. His wife, who came a little older than he, shook her black curls at him. She was fat, and she had big half-circles of damp under her arms, but Abe loved her a lot.
“Goldberg,” she said, “what’s the big idea, sending bums into my kitchen?”
Abe lifted his narrow shoulders and spread out his hands. “That guy was hungry,” he said. “What could I do?”
He lifted the trap on the counter and passed through. His small hand patted his wife’s great arm. “You know how it is,” he said softly; “we’ve been hungry Give him a break, Rosey, won’t you?”
She nodded her head. “It’s always the same. Bum after bum comes into this town and they all make tracks for you. I tell you, Goldberg, you’re a sucker.” Her big, fleshy smile delighted him.
“You’re a hard woman, Rosey,” he said, patting her arm again.
Dillon was eating in the kitchen, intent and morose, when Abe went in. He glanced up, keeping his head lowered over his plate, then he looked down again.
Abe stood there, shifting his feet a little in embarrassment. He said at last, “You go ahead an’ eat.”
With his mouth full, Dillon said, “Sure.”
Sitting there, his hat still wedged on his head, the knife and fork dwarfed in his big hairy hands, Dillon impressed Abe. There was an intense, savage power coming from him; Abe could feel it. It scared him a little.
For something to say, Abe remarked, “You come far?”
Again Dillon raised his cold eyes and looked. “Far enough,” he said.
Abe pulled up a chair and carefully lowered his small body down. He put his hands on the table—clean, soft hands of a child. He said, “Where you headin’ for?”
Dillon tore a piece of bread from the loaf and swabbed his plate round, then he put the bread in his mouth and clamped on it slowly. He pushed his plate away from him and sat back, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He still kept his head slightly lowered, so Abe couldn’t see him very well. “As far as I can git,” he said.
“Maybe a drop of beer’d come nice?” Abe said.
Dillon shook his head. “I can’t use the stuff.”
In spite of himself, Abe’s face brightened. The guy could have a drink on him with pleasure, but, maybe, he was getting a little generous. He said, “A smoke?”
Again Dillon shook his head. “Can’t use that either.”
Outside, in the store, Rosey gave a sudden squeal. Abe sat up listening. “What’s up with my Rose?” he said.
Dillon explored his teeth with a match-end. He said nothing. Abe got to his feet and walked into the store.
Walcott was leaning over the counter, glaring at Rosey. His thin, boney face was red.
Abe said nervously, “What is it?”
Walcott shouted, “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up, you goddam Kike. She ain’t givin’ me no more tick, that’s what’s up.”
Abe nodded his head. “That’s right, Mister Walcott,” he said, going a little white. “You owe me too much.”
Walcott saw he was scared. He said, “You gimme what I want, or I’ll bust you.” He closed his hand into a fist and leant over the counter, swinging at Abe. Abe stepped back hastily and banged his head hard against a shelf. Rosey squealed again.
Dillon shuffled slowly out of the kitchen into the store. He looked at Walcott, then he said, “Lay off.”
Walcott was drunk. The corn whisky still burnt in a fiery ball deep inside him. He turned slowly. “Keep out of this, you bum,” he said.
Dillon reached forward and hit Walcott in the middle of his face. The blow came up from his ankles. A spongy mass of blood suddenly appeared where Walcott’s nose had been. Walcott reeled away, holding on to his face with both hands.
Dillon stood watching him. He rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. He said, “Scram… get the hell outta here!”
Walcott went, his knees buckling as he walked.
Abe and Rosey stood motionless. The little Jew’s hands Muttered up and down his coat. He finally said, “You shouldn’t’ve hit him that hand.”
Dillon said nothing. He began to move to the door.
Abe said, “Wait. Don’t go. I guess we gotta thank you for that.”
Dillon turned his head. “Save it,” he said, “I got to get goin’.”
Rosey plucked at Abe’s sleeve. “Give that boy a job, Goldberg,” she said.
Abe looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Rosey…” he began.
Dillon looked at them suspiciously. Standing there in the dim store, his great shoulders hunched, he frightened Abe.
Rosey said, “Go on, Goldberg, give him a break You gotta get a hand some time, so make it now.”
Abe looked timidly at Dillon. “Sure,” he said uneasily. “That’s dead right. I was goin’ to hire me a hand. That’s right. Suppose we talk it over?”
Dillon stood hesitating, then he nodded.
“Sure, go ahead an’ talk about it.”
Myra Hogan walked down the main street, conscious of the turning heads. Even the niggers hesitated in their work, frightened to look up, but peeping their heads lowered.
She clicked on, her high wooden heels tapping a challenge. The men watched her, stripping her with their eyes, as she passed them.
The women watched her, too. Cold, envious eyes, hating her. Myra rolled her hips a little. She put on a slight strut, patting her dark curls. Her firm young body, unhampered by any restraining garment, moved rhythmically. Her full, firm breasts jerked under the thin covering of her cheap, flowered dress.
At the end of the street a group of slatternly women stood gossiping, ripping people to pieces in the hot sunlight. They saw her coming and stopped talking, standing there; silent, elderly, bulging women, worn out by childbirth and hard work. Myra stiffened as she approached them. For a moment her step lost its rhythmic swing. The wooden heels trod softer. Her confidence in herself had no solid foundations; she was still very young. In the company of her elders she had to force herself forward.